


The Growth and Evolution of Groot

by fairylightsinoctober



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: "groot is dead" to "groot is a tiny wiggly potted plant" to "he's Grown", Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, basically rocket angsting over his best leafy friend, but dont worry we're bringing him back, groot is dead in the beginning obviously, idk i wanted to cover the space between, raising him up RIGHT, teensy bit AU but working off the idea of rocket regrowing groot from a twig tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-29 15:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10856409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairylightsinoctober/pseuds/fairylightsinoctober
Summary: When Rocket saved a couple of twigs from the wreckage, he didn't exactly expect to end up with a plant toddler. He's not quite prepared to deal with this, but he's doing his best, alright?





	1. N O T Supposed to Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is gonna sting"
> 
> In which Rocket's worst fear comes true, and he tries to deal with it alone.

At first, all that Rocket could register was _no_. It wasn’t very articulate, but it was flooding his mind. _No_ , no, no, no, **NO**. This was _not_ supposed to happen. His one true friend was smashed to kindling amongst the debris of the battlefield. Rocket vaguely registered that he had fallen to his knees in the dirt, and his tiny body – he felt _so_ small then – was shaking violently as he clutched at the remaining twigs. Tears streaked down his face, running off his fur and making his whiskers shine with dampness. Before long, the rest of the team was circled around him, wondering whether or not to approach. Rocket could _feel_ the pitying looks on his back. For a couple of long minutes, though, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

Peter took it upon himself to be the first one to walk over and check on Rocket. The idea of losing someone you needed so badly, someone you’d practically thought of as indestructible, resonated with him more deeply than he’d care to admit, and he tried not to think back to long childhood days spent in hospital rooms. When Peter placed a hand on his shoulder, however, Rocket flinched, turning to snarl and snap at his hand with the kind of animalistic rage that he hadn’t seen from himself in a long time. It was enough that Peter staggered backwards a couple of steps, fear and pain flashing momentarily in his eyes. The immediate surge of guilt broke Rocket’s bubble of grief long enough to recognize the situation around him. Everyone was sweaty, dirty, and most of them were injured. Everyone was alive and in one piece, though, except for Groot. Poor Groot. The only one Rocket could count on, destroyed and turned to mulch on the ground.

 

When Rocket turned back to the others, the pity in their eyes was gone. It was replaced with a wary stare, like he was a rabid dog, some sort of dangerous wild animal. He supposed, with how he’d reacted to Quill, that might not be too far off. His little fists were clenched around two small pieces of branch, of Groot, of his _best fucking friend in the world_ , and he tried to pretend that he was alright. Everyone began surveying their own wounds, very carefully _not_ looking at Rocket. Peter was flexing and relaxing his left hand, wincing at the pain from the bloody, ragged tears in the flesh of his palm and knuckles. Rocket sniffled once, not finding it within himself to force his fingers to unfurl from around the bark. “Let’s go,” he muttered, head down as he stalked back towards the ship. Slowly, they all trailed after him, carefully keeping a distance between themselves and Rocket.

 

Back on the ship, Peter tried approaching him again. Rocket sat in his captain’s chair, fingers running over the bark of the twigs that he still clutched. This time, Quill knew better than to touch, and he purposely made his footsteps louder and heavier to warn of his approach. Rocket wasn’t quite sure whether that was comforting, or if it only made him feel guiltier. Peter sat down in the other chair which faced the front console – giving him a convenient excuse to avoid eye contact – and sighed heavily, taking a moment before he spoke. “Rocket, I--” he started, getting cut off hastily by a sharp interjection. “Don’t. Don’t spew some sympathetic crap like ‘I’m so sorry’ or ‘he’s in a better place’ or whatever. None of that’s gonna bring him back,” Rocket muttered, shaking his head and finally looking up to Peter. His expression was meant to be sharp and biting, but the pain in his eyes was obvious, If there was one thing that Rocket truly hated, it was pity. That soft look in everyone’s eyes, like he might break down at any moment. It didn’t matter that a breakdown seemed a distinct possibility. That wasn’t the point. Groot had been _his_ friend, and he felt selfishly possessive over the grief of his death. The death that had saved them all. He didn’t want false – or what he perceived as false – sympathy from those that barely knew Groot.

 

            Peter nodded, understanding Rocket’s words entirely. He’d felt that way after his mother’s passing, although Yondu hadn’t offered empty sentiments, and had simply made an effort to void the topic entirely. He couldn’t fix anything about the situation, and Quill wasn’t so sure that leaving Rocket alone wasn’t the best thing to do. After another thirty seconds or so of trying to come up with something to say, Peter finally just sighed once more. “I… I know how close you two were. If you wanna talk… I’m all ears, pal,” he said, leaving it at that a he stood up from his chair. He cast one more glance to Rocket, who was staring at the console like it owed him money, before leaving him alone with his thoughts.

 

            On one hand, Rocket was glad that Quill had given up on the perceived “nagging”. On the other hand, being alone almost felt worse. He sat stoically for all of two minutes, before one single tear escaped from his eye. That one tear turned into one sob, and that one sob turned into many, and that turned into lashing out. His little fists pounded onto the console in front of him, beating until his paws hurt, and more. He struck the unyielding metal over and over, until he caught a sharp corner of one of the levers, which slit open his right paw, making him yelp in pain and leaving a nasty, stinging gash. He fell back into his chair, curling into himself and holding his injured paw in the other. Licking at his hand to clean and soothe the wound, he surveyed the depth and severity of the gash. It wasn’t deep enough to do any real damage, but it was just the icing on the cake of a terrible day. After another couple of minutes of soft whimpering, Quill appeared once more, seemingly out of where. This time, he held not sympathetic words, but a first aid kit.

 

            Peter had been determined to leave Rocket alone, but the sharp scream of pain – and quiet whimpers afterwards – had been enough to break his resolve. He opened the med kit, taking out the disinfectant and bandages after seeing the cut on Rocket’s hand. He offered out the relevant supplies, but Rocket only stared, sticking out his injured paw in a wordless request for assistance. Peter nodded, ripping open the disinfectant wipe packet and sitting back down in his chair again. “This is gonna sting,” he warned quietly, reaching to take Rocket’s hand. He disinfected the cut as efficiently as possible, cleaning it of all blood and dirt. Besides soft hissing between clenched teeth, Rocket remained still and silent as Quill moved on to the bandaging. Afterwards, Peter began repacking the kit. “Thanks,” Rocket muttered quietly, surprising Peter with a response. “No problem, buddy,” He replied. They sat in silence for another moment more, neither knowing what to say to the other, before Rocket finally scooted to the edge of the seat, hopping down to the floor and padding off to his own quarters.

 

            It took Rocket a moment of sitting alone on his bed to realize what was missing. He got back up, walking back to gather the twigs from where he’d dropped them on the floor by the console. He felt a little guilty for lashing out at the machinery. He hadn’t broken anything – if it’d been that easy, Quill would’ve destroyed the ship entirely by now – but he’d disregarded the only tangible proof of Groot’s _existence_ in his rage. When he reached the front of the ship, he didn’t so much as look at Quill, who was sitting in the same place as a minute or two ago. He dusted off the jagged little pieces, carrying them close to his chest as he made the way back to his quarters.

 

            Rocket curled up amongst the nest of his pillows and blankets on his bed. Sure, it looked to the unfamiliar like just an unmade bed, but it was a rather comfortable sleeping spot. In Rocket’s not-so-humble opinion, anyways. He laid there for awhile, just processing the day and hiding from the sympathetic gazes of the others, till he felt himself drifting back and forth on the edge of sleep.  Then he jolted upright, his mind going back to the small twigs in his hands. He couldn’t just throw them away, but he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. He surveyed the room – which was, as usual, a mess of “borrowed” items and half-finished projects – and looked around for anything to keep them in. Crawling out of his nest, he hopped off of his bed, and crossed the room to his work desk. Atop the desk sat a half-empty cup of water, which he grabbed with his bandaged had. He brought it over to the nightstand, sweeping one of his current tinkering projects off onto the floor to make room. The cup was set on the nightstand, and the measly little branches plinked one-two into the shallow water. Rocket sniffled, fingertips trailing over the glass as he turned away and climbed back onto the bed. After shimmying into his homemade nest once more, he curled in on himself tightly, doing his best not to think about the day. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, dreaming all night of old adventures and old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I lowkey made Rocket... V Angsty™ and V Sad™ but please forgive me. Anger issues/emotional processing issues Rocket is my fav Rocket. Leave kudos or a comment if you liked it, concrit welcome! There will be another chapter later this week :)


	2. G'night, Groot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have a plant. Can't I have a plant?"
> 
> In which Rocket's secret gets found out, and he's a little more defensive than you might think.

The following day, Rocket – in typical Rocket fashion – threw himself back into his work. He needed the distraction, and, besides, he couldn’t get rid of those damn pitying glances if he laid in bed all day. So he got up and began tinkering, rebuilding, remodeling, and repairing, with twice his usual enthusiasm. He did earn himself a few worried looks from his friends, but nobody dared to question his productivity. 

Day after day went on in the same manner. The concerned glances, much to Rocket’s relief, grew fewer and fewer. After awhile, the ship seemed to slowly begin growing into a new kind of normalcy. Things were very different without Groot. Rocket muttered to himself at least three times as much without his friend around to listen, and he’d caught himself calling out loud for him several times, by reflex. “Groot, hand me that”, or “Groot, come look at this”. Nobody would mention it, but the absence felt almost like a new presence in itself. 

In time, Rocket fell slowly back into his usual self again, altogether ignoring the makeshift vase of twigs still present on his nightstand. The only time he acknowledged them was once every week or two, when he topped off the water in the cup. He’d been expecting the still-greenish pieces to shrivel and start to rot within a couple of weeks, like cut flowers would. But, week after week, they prevailed. 

One day, Rocket had to take pause as he glanced over the plants, shocked at what he saw. Were those… they couldn’t be roots. But there they were. Tiny, spindly roots, reaching out from the base of one twig and into the water. The other, however, was sickly, going floppy and taking on an ill shade of green-brown. Rocket heaved a sigh before plucking it out of the water. He couldn’t risk it poisoning or overcrowding the little thing that had somehow grown roots. That day, he took extra care in pouring the fresh water into the glass, not even daring to jostle the plant inside. From then on, he checked on the glass every morning when he woke up, and every night before he fell asleep. Anytime the water level grew a little too low for his liking, he topped it up dutifully.

The days dragged on into weeks under Rocket’s careful watch. The root structure grew and widened, forming into a cylindrical shape as it used up all the available space in the glass. It was becoming obvious that the little plant needed more. Late one night, he snuck out of his quarters, the cup in hand. There was still a box of soil in storage from when Quill had presented it to Groot as a joke. Groot hadn’t gotten it, but now Rocket was glad for Quill’s stupid sense of humor. He crept through the ship and into the storage area, trying to avoid the precarious stacks and shelves of items. After nearly making it to the box, he accidentally bumped into one of the stacks, sucking in a sharp breath as a priceless artifact tumbled from the top and crashed to the ground. It didn’t break, but the result was even worse; it fell on his foot. He swore loudly by reflex, a rather creative string of profanity leaving his bewhiskered mouth. 

After composing himself, Rocket set the artifact back up where it belonged, and continued tiptoeing towards his goal, hoping that the noise hadn’t woken anyone. It seemed like he’d have no such luck, however, as he was startled a moment later by the light flicking on and a sudden presence behind him. 

Rocket whirled around, one hand dramatically over his heart. “Shit, Quill, don’t scare me like that!” He snapped, as if he wasn’t the one that’d been making things go bump in the night. Peter did not seem amused by the humor. He was dressed in only a pair of ratty old sweatpants, and his messy hair was a solid indication that he’d just been deep in sleep. “Rocket, what—what are you even doing in here?” Peter asked with a sigh, slumping back against the doorframe. “Well… that doesn’t sound like any of your business, does it, pal?” Rocket replied, holding the plastic cup behind his back. Peter shook his head, running a hand through his hair to smooth his bedhead. He stood up straight again and turned to leave, when Rocket tilted the “vase” just a bit too far. The water inside poured out onto the floor with a loud trickle-trickle-splash. 

Peter hesitated, as if wondering if he really wanted to know what had just happened. Going back to bed seemed like a good option, leaving Rocket to whatever suspicious behavior he was up to. Reluctantly, he decided that he could only ignore things for so long, and the consequences usually came back to bite him harder if he tried. Turning around to Rocket once more, he saw the raccoon clutching a plastic cup close to his chest, worrying over the tiny thing inside. Was that a branch? Was that… No, couldn’t be. 

“Well, glad to know that’s not piss on the floor,” Peter said with a sigh. He didn’t even have a filter in the daytime, he definitely didn’t then. “Whatcha got there?”

Rocket huffed, sidestepping the spreading puddle. “None of your business, Quill,” He snapped again, half-stepping and half-hopping over a cardboard box. 

“Uh, pretty sure it is my business, because you woke me up. Everything is now, by default, my business!” Peter insisted, following Rocket. He was soon cornered into the back of the room, though he found the box of soil easily. As Peter continued to stare, awaiting an answer, Rocket carefully scooped tiny handfuls of dirt into the nearly-empty cup. When it came to the silence game, only Drax could rival either Quill or Rocket, so it was a long minute till either of them dared to break the quiet.

“…I have a plant. Can’t I have a plant? Go back to bed,” Rocket muttered, still not looking up to Peter. He was staring down at the little thing, re-adjusting it in the new soil, and making sure that it wouldn’t flop over or be crushed. 

“Yeah, uh, sure, you can have a plant. But...,” Peter hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. Rocket was already defensive, and he didn’t know if he’d appreciate any help. Even Peter’s groggy, half-awake mind was beginning to piece together the source of the little sprout. “Uh, you might want something bigger. Than that cup, I mean.”

Rocket was quiet for a second or two, considering Quill’s words. Finally, he looked back up to the man, looking a little suspicious of whatever Quill may offer. “Well, what’ve you got…?” He mumbled, poking at the dirt in his cup. Even Rocket had to admit, it looked a little wimpy and insufficient. 

Peter let out a heavy breath, turning to pick his way back through the storage room. He made it to one shelf, and had to tiptoe to take down a box of assorted glass and ceramic pieces. They were obviously all quite old and possibly valuable, but Quill dug through almost carelessly till he found what he was looking for; an ordinary ceramic pot. There were a few painted designs – whether it was a foreign language or simply a design for beauty was unclear – but it didn’t look quite as valuable as the others did. “Here,” He said simply, offering it down to Rocket. He set down the cup and took the pot, turning it over in his hands to inspect it. After giving the piece a cursory wipe-off with his sleeve, he sat down and set to re-potting the sprout once more. “Thanks,” Rocket muttered gruffly. Peter nodded, running a hand through his hair again. “I’m gonna… leave you to that. Try not to wake anybody up again,” He added, turning to leave again. “G’night.” 

Rocket grunted a soft “night”, standing up and dusting himself off as he finished the re-potting. He took a moment to admire his handiwork, deciding both that the pot was sufficient, and that he wouldn’t be cleaning up the dirt on the floor tonight. He wrapped both arms around the pot, holding it close so as not to drop it, and made his way back out of the maze of bins, boxes, and precarious towers of stuff. Once out of the storage room, he easily made his way back to his own quarters. A few more things were swept carelessly off the nightstand, then he tiptoed to set the pot atop it. After checking to make sure that the soil was appropriately damp – the remains from his “vase” had taken care of that – Rocket smiled a little and crawled back into bed. He tucked himself into his little nest of bedclothes, yawning widely and shutting his eyes. 

“…G’night, Groot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we'll get to longer chapters/more action soon. We'll see /Groot/ in the next chapter. But I'm kinda liking this backstory. As always, kudos and comments are welcome and appreciated! Hope you enjoyed! :)


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